


Nothing Beats Tradition

by archea2



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Humor, Kitchen Drama, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Sherlock in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 07:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archea2/pseuds/archea2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has outwitted Moriarty, survived the Hiatus and put off the old self. Of course he can cook a Christmas dinner for four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Beats Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sherlockmas December challenge and a prompt by TheSmallHobbit. My gratitude goes to Grassle for speedbetaing 4K words with her customary diplomacy and talent.

**8.20**

Mrs Hudson looks him over one last time. Then beams approval and ties the apron string herself, tut-tutting wistfully when she has to wind it twice round the slender waist. "Now remember, dear," she tells Sherlock, deaf to Mrs Turner's sharp come-hither whistle. They are standing between two doors, hers and the main entrance, now open onto Baker Street, the lovely cold sky only just letting go of the night, and the attending minibus with its glossy LONDON'S SENIOR CITIZEN PAGANS on the side.

"Just look after the timing –"

"– and the cooking will look after itself." Sherlock grins, bending his head for her benediction kiss. "Really, Mrs Hudson. Such lack of faith, on a day such as this. If Detective Inspector Lestrade can entrust me with the proof of the pudding –"

"Coo-ee!"

"Mar-tha!"

"Time and tide  _and_  solstice, missus!" This from the driver, a Stonehenge old trooper, as he lowers the window and waves a clump of holly outside to bait the stray sheep in.

"Pudding? You never said anything about – oh, you mean dessert, of course. Silly old me."

Sherlock sighs. They have eyes and they do not see; they have ears and still need a tin opener for the commoner's English.

"When I say pudding, Mrs Hudson, I mean _pudding_. As in puddle and doodling, and of equal interest to me, but who am I to interfere with Greg's little fetish for tradition?"

"But – surely, you're not planning to bake one, are you?" Mrs Hudson fairly bleats, one foot on the bus step. Sherlock's attempt to convey both affirmation and reassurance is cut short by a horn rendering of  _Cauld Blaws the Wind_  and the driver launching the Pagan oldsters on their way with the strength of a thousand burning bonfires.

He is left waving from the doorstep, his loins girded and a shadowy suspiscion in his heart that all is not entirely as should be. But he knows what he is doing, and for whom he is doing it, and his heart has dealt the intruder a smart kick up the backside by the time he's back inside.

**8.30**

Sherlock walks the battlefield.

To his left, the lined-up kitchen appliances, some of which now support his chemicals, glassware and a potted aspidistra cleverly named Astrid, a refugee from Mrs Hudson's backyard. To his right, the big table has been wiped into a clean slate so it can host the basics for his new experiment. Viz. one big turkey (male, one of twins, fed on cheap grain by a farmer who either had a nasty run with bigamy or was a food miser), celery, his laptop, cheese crackers, more crackers (the Christmas sort), vegetables, raisins, flour, butter and a bottle of Madeira wine. Since the table won't give another inch, the bowls have been stacked on a chair and the chestnuts inside the teapot, next to the sulphonic acid.

Sherlock stares at the table. The Christmas Victuals United stare back at Sherlock, who adjusts his goggles and claps his hands briskly.

"We'll start with the turkey's crop."

**8.33**

If there's one thing he hates, it's cross-interrogating witnesses  _in absentia_.

The Classic Turkey website is adamant about pulling the giblets from the turkey's crop and washing it inside out. It does not provide an anatomic chart, but Sherlock has done his research and can tell wattle from crop, thank you very much. Jamie Oliver spouts a lot of nonsense about legs taking longer to cook than the breast (which Sherlock is certain could be disproved if only Mycroft let him access the Lecter file) but does not mention crops. And a certain "Wendy" favours decapitation, followed by a full-body massage with butter and brandy, which sounds like weird poultry aftercare.

It's all very fussy and annoying, and Sherlock, with a side-glance at the roaring fireplace in his living room, is tempted to dismiss the lot and fetch his harpoon. But if there's one thing he promised himself, when he called to suggest that Greg bring his children for Christmas lunch at 221B, it was that, this of all days, he would play by the rules. Cook by the book. Show Greg he could do this - could do family, could put an end to the dark grief of their days _before_ , when Greg wanted a square deal and Sherlock wanted the courage to give it to him - and neither could square the widening circle of questions and evasions, slammed-door statements, petty quarantines, bad comfort shags, sad silent shags...

Until Greg called it quits on another Christmas Eve, Sherlock deleted his name, and it took Moriarty's own bastard vortex to straighten their circle at long last.

_Too long_ , Sherlock had thought later, huddled in a small Tibetan hut, his shorn head aching under the mountain cold. _Too late?_

But no. Incredibly, thankfully, no.

The Madeira is filling the air with perfumes of burnt sugar, raisins and ripe summer days. It was bought for the chestnut soup but will have to do. Sherlock hums a little air under his breath and dips his fingers luxuriously into the warm butter.

**8.56**

The fat turkey has been propitiated with a backrub, an offering of parsnip, carrots and celery, and a baptism free of charge. It has also been told not to emulate its namesake, but invest in some legwork for a change. Sherlock shoves it into the oven and turns resolutely to the chestnuts.

**9.12**

What _does_ that Allrecipes woman think she's doing, telling him "to simply sauté" the chestnuts in butter? Dear Lord. Split infinitives all right, but no indication to slice the shells or they will explode under the accumulated steam pressure? Do these people even know the meaning of thermodynamics? Sherlock puts the last chestnut in his frying pan with a righteous scowl. And they say  _he_ 's a kitchen hazard.

According to the woman, it will take twenty minutes for the chestnuts to get properly heated through, which gives him a choice between looking up puddings and laying the table. Sherlock sets the alarm on his phone and slips out, taking the Madeira and leaving the kitchen door ajar.

**9.20**

There are six soup plates on the sitting room table, a puzzling clue. Of course, it could be that Mrs Hudson wanted to give the last two a little outing. You never can tell with Mrs Hudson, whose affair with Mr Chatterjee finally petered out not because he had a wife in Doncaster, but because he couldn't see eye to eye with her on animism and would not let her honour the aubergine curry before eating it. Unless Mrs Hudson has remembered the old Pascalian adage about the heart out-reasoning reason and decided, against all rhyme and reason, that Sherlock has invited Anderson and the new Mrs Anderson to his little do.

But no, there will only be three guests, and Sherlock decides that the extra plates can be used for the crackers. The cheese variety, which will keep Greg happy if the turkey procrastinates, and the explosive brand, which will a) keep the children – no, Kes and Hannah, better start practising now – happy and b) show Sherlock at his best when he solves the riddles for them. Win-win table plan.

He picks a cracker and inspects the cheap, apparently seamless silk paper.

**9.21**

If he solves the riddles, will Greg's children like him?

**9.21.30**

If Greg's children like him, will Greg smile as he did on their first  _after_  morning-after? The crinkly quiet smile which said  _I'm letting go of the dark places_ , as if Greg knew no better than to forgive against all odds, against years of data that bitched and busted Sherlock Holmes as a full-time partner. Unreasonable man that he is.

**9.23**

The cracker rips apart with a dismal bang, leaving Sherlock to wonder if, with a home-made touch of magnesium... Hmm, no. Rules, Sherlock, rules.

It yields a paper hat and a pink balloon which he blows up absently, then knots with one hand, using the other to smooth the riddle out on the starched tablecloth. Seven Moves Ahead, his father's motto when they played chess in the rare summers he spent home after twenty.

_What is the bane of Santa's life?_

**9.25**

Oh, for God's sake. He is Sherlock Holmes. He has cracked a Chinese cypher, the Woman's phone code, Major Barrymore's password  _and_ the Home Office Intranet, the day he switched their desktop background for a photograph of Mycroft at two, lording it on his potty. He can crack a Tesco cracker.

**9.28**

He can!

**9.29**

_The elf and safety inspectors._

Sherlock gropes for the Madeira. Somebody must have convinced Greg Lestrade to moonlight for the puns, which means that Sherlock will be starting the game with a handicap. This is intolerable.

**9.32**

_What do you get if you cross a hen with an alarm clock_ _?_

A red carpet to Baskerville?

_What do vampires sing on New Year's Eve?_

Oh, for God's sake.

_What does a frog do when his car breaks down?_

Are we speaking of a batrachian or a figurative Frenchman in the first place?

_Why do golfers need an extra pair of shoes?_

_What do you call a reindeer wearing earmuffs?_

_What do you call a reindeer with no eyes?_

Sherlock glares at the mounting pile of small papers on the tablecloth. Of all the cretinous, puerile, mind-shrinking... Sherlock is fuming with scholarly wrath. Wait. There seems to be actual smoke in the room. And the smell –

His phone chimes up as he lunges for the kitchen door.

**9\. 50**

The kitchen is filled with acrid smoke. Sherlock turns the fire off and pushes a window open, wheezing against his shirt sleeve. What the hell happened here? Instead of gathering their gentle heat, the chestnuts seem to have opted for collective sati. They are black and brittle and mostly hard when he prods them through the X-shaped incision. Grabbing a tea towel, Sherlock gives his laptop screen a frantic rub.

_The best thing is to simply sauté the chestnuts in butter for twenty minutes.*_

_* Buy them peeled and cooked, as they come in packs of 50g and will be easier to_

His raucous coughing strikes a notch up. Footnotes. Bloody _footnotes_ on a bloody _recipe_. What next, an introduction by Harold Bloom? And what now? Think. _Think_. There has to be a way out. Six, no, five, damn it, four Moves.

**10.02**

"John, I need your popcorn popper pan and I need it now."

"Yeah, Merry Christmas to you too." John's voice reaches him across a windy grumble which Sherlock quickly deduces is a car engine no longer in its prime. "Hope for your sake that wasn't an indecent proposal, because Mary is sitting right next to me."

With a sigh, Sherlock gears into explanatory mood. "I can roast the chestnuts on my open fire, but only if I" – he leans forward to scan the screen – "invest in an iron skillet with holes punched into it. If anyone knows about punching, that would be you."

"Yeah, well, no. Don't think we have one, and anyway we're on our way to visit Mary's mother. She hasn't seen the baby yet. Can it wait till till Boxing Day?"

"No it can't. Lestrade's children are with their mother on Boxing Day."

"You're having Lestrade's kids over at Baker Street? Today?"

"I'm having Lestrade over and yes, I'm extending my hospitality to his son and daughter. I'm perfectly capable of cooking for four, John, when I put my mind to –"

"Hang on.  _You_ 're in charge of the meal?"

"John. Could you please stop asking the answers. It's no help to me, and it's extremely annoying."

"Sorry, sorry." John's voice now sounds a little frayed at the seams, though Sherlock isn't too sure if he is holding back compassion or pure, abject hilarity. Then John relapses and says "Go for Plan B and call Angelo? Or Mrs Leong? Seriously, Sherlock. When children are involved, we should all make the safe choice."

"Says the man who called his daughter Clarinet."

" _Clare Annette_. Hope you've already deduced who your co-godparent is to be." Oh, now John is waxing impatient. Pat on cue, a trail of soft, limpid gasps takes over on the waves. The baby, snuffling herself alert at her name. "Look, I have to hang up."

"I know. Tell her Merry Christmas from me. Them."

"Are you sure you'll be –"

But Sherlock has ended the call, the new-born's tiny gurgle still in his ear. _Never too late_ , he thinks, turning to appraise the table. _Never too late_.

**10.11**

According to the humanist Wendy, he should also have skinned Mycroft before giving him his backrub.

Sherlock turns the heat down and grabs his coat. Three Moves and a two-hour window, give or take, before his guests' arrival. Better give Mycroft a reprieve and stack up the home front.

**10.28**

Tesco's is closed.

**10.39**

Sainsbury's ditto.

**10.47**

Bloody Asda's ditto. Sherlock is smelling a pattern.

**10.51**

Raz, whom he finds putting the last twirling touch to some red and green graffiti, points him to a local store three streets further. The store does cigarettes, sweets and newspapers. And food, yeah. Sort of. Raz thinks it closes at eleven-ish. Raz also thinks he knows another store that does crackers (sort of) but it lies far away in the opposite direction, on the very outskirts of Shoreditch.

Sherlock gives Raz fifty pounds and tells him to report before twelve.

Then starts off again at a jog.

**11.03**

All of Westminster must have been consulting Allrecipes, judging by the sea-serpent of a queue. Sherlock navigates his way in hip to shoulder with a little old lady who is busy telling her friend about her plans for the day. "I couldn't imagine spending Christmas without my little lambs," the lady is stating in a frail, fierce voice, "and neither could my little lambs. Their mother has custody, of course, but Brian always makes sure –" But that's when Sherlock boards the food aisle with the wild step of a buccaneer who has just been let off his plankton diet.

**11.14**

The tiny store doesn't do peeled and cooked chestnuts.

Or tinned chestnut soup.

Or the European sweet chestnut under any avatar.

Sherlock snatches the last packs of Weight Watchers tomato soup, ignoring the old lady's concerned shake of the head. There has to be a way to Yule it up. Put the crackers in it, perhaps. Or the leftover raisins, after he's baked the pudding. Splash of orange juice, to make it more edgy. The Madeira. Spices, pepper, cinnamon, which Mummie used to sprinkle on his toast for elevenses. Oh God.  _Eleven_.

**11.27**

Yes, fine, he should have remembered to take the goggles off. Can these idiots stop gawking now and  _get a move on_?

**11.45**

He swivels out of his coat, rubs the cold off his fingers and stops in the sitting room. Deep breath. Put on Mrs Hudson's parting gift ("children need atmosphere, dear") in the CD player. Sweep off the cracker debacle. The extra plates in his hand, he is re-entering the kitchen when a new thought freezes him.

Mrs Hudson is away carousing in Stonehenge because her marriage left her childless (he counts, but even he knows it's not the same). John is taking Mary's little lamb to see her gran because that's what people do. What traditions make them do. Get their parents and children together for the day.

Six plates. He clearly remembers telling Greg that he would be welcome, "you and yours". Did Greg tell Mrs Hudson there would four of them coming?

**11.46**

Sodding hell. He can't even remember if Greg has any parents living close to London. If he invited them at all, he made a superb job of deleting them afterwards.

**11.47**

Sherlock takes a swig from the bottle and makes a sober guess that Gregory Lestrade had a mother and father forty-six years ago. It's not helping.

**11.49**

Eight swigs later, Sherlock has given up on sober-guessing and gone back to reasoning. It stands to reason that the safe option is to research puddings. Pudding brings people together at Christmas. Pudding is a virtuous motivator. He'll give Granny Lestrade his share if required. Where's that bloody recipe?

**11.51**

Sherlock hasn't found his recipe. But it's all right, because Nicholas Kurti's theory of molecular gastronomy is utterly breathtaking and could open up a new avenue to the preservation of body parts if applied the right way.

**12.08**

A rap at the door shoots his molecular high down. It's  Raz and no, Sherlock can't have his crackers. Apparently, the 1875 Explosive Acts still makes it against the law to sell crackers to minors and Raz, who is over sixteen but looks closer to twelve when struck down by a cold, could not produce any ID. Doesn't see any reason to, either : his spray cans identify him well enough across Central London. Notwithstanding, he has been strongly encouraged to buy a water pistol and a bag of sherbet lemons. He hopes they will do.

**12.10**

Time is playing Sherlock,  _crescendo ffffff_. Three Moves. Start the soup? Set the glasses? Text Mycroft to emancipate the crackers? His head aches. The atmospheric CD is braying "Let Nothing Ye Dismay" over and over and  _over_  again. And he still hasn't found what you call a reindeer with no eyes.

**12.15**

Sherlock has one elbow inside the largest bowl and Google sicced on sweetmeats when he takes the call. "Merry Christmas," he says, careful to give each consonant its due, including the perilous "stm".

"You," Mycroft riposts after a second's incredulous interval, "are drunk."

" 'm not, Mike. 'm baking a pudding."

Mycroft sighs, but keeps his voice down. In the background, Sherlock can hear a few straggly voices chorusing in whispers to the sound of  _Silent Night_.

"And you're at the Diogenes," he concludes with a cackle of glee.

"Sherlock." Mycroft has switched to his dripping-with-patience tones, those which he usually reserves for Euro gurus, the  _Pravda_ 's director of communication and a few aging corgis. "I thought you were seeing Detective Inspector Lestrade at lunch."

"'m baking a pudding for Greg and the kids. And the Gregparents." Sherlock knows when he has a point.

"No, you're not. Not unless you have overexcelled yourself and baked a time-machine first. Really, Sherlock. Where are your Christmas memories? One always starts a pudding five weeks ahead. And then, according to whether one is a sadist or a Lawsonist, one either keeps it in the dark and suffocates it in rum, or steams it up in foil, upends it and sticks a sprig of holly in it.  _Et voilà_."

"..."

"...Sherlock ? Are you all right?"

"I'm fucking this up," Sherlock whispers to no one in particular, staring at the blank walls and the rows of chemicals on the countertop.

"No, no."

"Definitely fucking this up."

"...Look, if it's that important to you, I can have one delivered within the next –"

"I can't even manage the fucking puns."

"Oh dear, are we at the self-flagellating stage? None of us could ever manage the puns, Sherlock. Remember NATO's opening gala, when you were twelve? Father flunked the one about which nationality is always in a hurry, and he solved Fermat's last theorem only six weeks later."

Sherlock's eyelids drop shut under the pressure of hard thinking.

"...The Russian?"

"You see? Nothing fucked-up about you, little brother. Now pick up your spoon and fight. It's a far, far better thing that you're doing for Lestrade now, than you have ever done before."

"Thaa's 'trocious grammar." But Sherlock is smiling.

"And it is a far, far better rest – but I'm not sure I want to know about  _that_. Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

**12.40**

His head fizzes oddly, wonderfully, as Sherlock finishes laying the table and banks up the fire. He'll have to stand in for the crackers, but that's all right. Everything is all right. He even thinks he can fix the turkey. It looked a bit dry and wrinkled when he took it out of the oven, and that Oliver fellow might have been right about the legs. But it's all right. All he has to do is to simply sauté them in butter for twenty minutes. He's been here before. He knows the moves.

**12.57**

The turkey has taken some persuasion to part with its legs, now crackling merrily with a little help from the butter, the oil and the last dregs of the Madeira. All it needs is a pinch of seasoning. Sherlock is breathing in the fumes and humming along with the flames.

And someone is knocking lightly on the kitchen door.

**12.57.04**

Sherlock turns his head, waves to Greg with a beatific smile, and gropes for the salt on the countertop.

**1.02**

Greg's arms are clasped tight and warm about him, his hold as solid as when he pulled Sherlock back a second before the fire hit the kitchen ceiling. It ran a straight vertical course and no one was hurt, though Mrs Hudson won't be too happy to find that Astrid met an early sacrificial death in the process. The damp potted earth took care of the flames, but the turkey's legs are now lying buried under their own little tumulus.

"You did that all by yourself?" Kes asks in an awed voice, lifting his head from the DO NOT ENTER KITCHEN ON FIRE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE placard he is drawing with his father's ballpoint pen. "Wow. You should go on television!"

Sherlock is still tempted to push his face into Greg's neck and wait until the year has wheeled them all around into the next Christmas when he feels a light touch on his wrist. Six-year-old Hannah is gazing up at him with all of a child's focussed gravity and a pair of familiar brown eyes.

"Did you forget to leave a mince pie for Santa, Mr Holmes?" She slips her hand into his. "Is that why he made you burn the duck?"

"I didn't burn it. The sulphonic acid crystals did," Sherlock answers. Suddenly, all right is making a shy comeback. He angles his head and winks at her. "They're very  _volatile_."

Greg, who has been shaking with ill-repressed laughter all this time, gives it up and has to clutch Sherlock for balance.

**1.30**

Mrs Leong clears a table at the back for them and rolls the trolley of dim sum closer with a maternal smile. "Yes, you can water the carp," she tells Kes who looks more than eager to try his new weapon. "And my son too, if he is too lazy bringing your Coke. But no one else, mind."

Greg leans back in his chair and surveys the place with a giant grin. "Well, well," he says. "Rings a bell or two, eh, sweetie?"

"Daddy always burnt the food at Christmas," Hannah tells Sherlock, who is showing her how to use chopsticks, having agreed that the china spoon is really for babies. A demonstration slightly hampered by the fact that Hannah, still ascertaining Mr Holmes's degree of grief over the ruined duck, won't let go of his hand. "And then Mummy made Daddy take us here."

"Best place in the City," Greg observes complacently. "Not far from the Met, too. We could pop in after if you like, Sherlock. Bring the lads some fortune cookies, show the tots how to take fingerprints before I whisk them off to watch  _Mary Poppins_."

But Sherlock shakes his head. "Wrong, as always. After lunch, we're going home to suck sherbet lemons and open presents before the fireplace." He meets Greg's raised eyebrow with a brazen grin. "And my remote is bigger than yours."

Before Greg can reply, the door opens on a rush of cold air, and Hannah releases Sherlock to dart forward with a happy cry. Sherlock turns his head in time to see Kes race her to the new couple. He can't make out the woman's face because she has dropped to her knees and is hugging the two children, but her companion, he of the well-toned chest and one-size-too-small Lycra top, looks decidedly glum.

"Like I said," Greg purrs, his eyes dancing, while Sherlock uses the chopsticks to point Mrs Leong and her new clients to the farthest opposite angle. "Nothing beats tradition on a day like this. You're a great man, Sherlock Holmes. And this is a bloody great Christmas."

Sherlock smiles and raises his Chinese beer in a salute.

"Then tell me, Inspector. What happens when you team up Father Christmas with a detective?"

The answer, of course, is  _Santa Clues_  and not the groin-tickling, soul-jolting, warm impetuous kiss that Greg is giving him in the sight of all, patrons, waiters and two innocent children on their way back to the table. But as answers go, Sherlock thinks comfortably, it will more than do on a day like this.

 


End file.
